Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  And had come highly recommended to him by others.

  I wonder if they were in on it.

  It was frustrating. This entire experience had him questioning the loyalty of everyone around him, and everyone that had been involved in helping choose his team.

  The only person he could trust was his wife.

  He sat up, his eyes coming to rest on this Agent White, still not sure if he could be trusted. His gut told him yes, but his paranoid self was screaming no.

  “I can tell by your reaction that I’m right,” said the detective, pressing her advantage.

  Jones felt his chest tighten.

  No one can know!

  “Can you clear the room please?”

  The detective looked at him for a moment then nodded. “Everyone out!”

  The room quickly emptied and he saw Agent White turn to leave.

  “Not him.”

  White turned toward him, his face expressionless.

  “What did you have to tell me?” asked the detective.

  Jones looked at her, still not sure if he could trust her, but they were beyond that. He had to say something, enough to at least stop the incessant questioning.

  And then it dawned on him.

  If she were one of them, then she wouldn’t be pressing him for the truth. There was no way they would want him to actually answer her questions. It was one thing to try and test him, but not in public in a room full of people. That made no sense.

  He had to trust her. He had to trust White.

  Otherwise he was totally alone, left to fight a cabal of people he knew nothing about, with extraordinary money and resources at their disposal.

  The detective stepped closer. “You know that Mr. Quaid is involved, don’t you.”

  He sighed, nodding at her. “You can’t tell anyone that. They’ll kill me, they’ll kill everyone.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “If you don’t tell me, how can I protect you?”

  Jones shook his head. “There’s no protecting me from them. Nobody can protect me, especially not you.”

  Agent White stepped forward.

  “She can’t, but I can.”

  Anne Arundel Medical Center, Annapolis, Maryland

  Sherrie White could hear the muffled tones outside her door, the doctor explaining her status to Milton and his wife. She was lucky. Damned lucky. Her business had taught her to be paranoid—or abundantly cautious—so she had been wearing a vest.

  When Dylan Kane warns you it could be dangerous, you listen.

  That man knew dangerous, his daily routine more dangerous than her most hazardous mission to date.

  Though she did now have the distinction of being shot.

  Twice.

  At point blank range.

  Remind me to send the inventor of the bulletproof vest a bottle of scotch.

  She had two broken ribs, three cracked ribs, significant bruising and a reinflated left lung.

  She felt like shit.

  And she wished Chris was here.

  At this moment, as far as she knew, he had no idea what had happened. Things had happened so quickly, she had just been wheeled into the recovery room less than ten minutes ago.

  She looked through the window. She could see Milton’s head, he obviously in his wheelchair, his wife at his side.

  Where are the professors?

  Her heart picked up a little speed, the monitor beeping to her left betraying her. She tried to sit up and gasped, the pain intense despite the painkillers she was on.

  She collapsed back into her pillow.

  I’m out.

  “She’ll need a couple of days rest here where we can monitor her, then she can head home. She’ll need a couple of months before she’s back to normal, though.”

  “Okay, thanks, Doctor.”

  Milton wheeled into the room, his wife behind him.

  “Where are the professors?” asked Sherrie, not bothering with any small talk.

  “They were arrested at the scene. Laura saved your life. Apparently your heart stopped.”

  Sherrie paused for a moment as she processed those words.

  You were dead.

  Yet another thing to add to her bona fides.

  It scared her a bit. Not so much that she had died, the possibility of death never really bothering her that much. It was the thought of leaving Chris all alone that would haunt her. The poor guy was so shy he would hole up in his apartment and never put himself out there again. She would want him to move on, to find a new love to share his life with, but she knew he wouldn’t.

  And thoughts like that could make her a less effective agent.

  So she kept them to herself.

  She looked at Milton, recovering her train of thought. “Arrested? For what?”

  “For shooting those two guys who tried to kill you, I guess. I’m not really sure, we haven’t been able to find out much. Jim told us to go with you and make sure you were okay, so we did. But…”

  “But what?”

  “Well, I got a phone call.”

  Sherrie’s eyes narrowed.

  “From who?”

  “I think from the woman who shot you.”

  Sherrie pushed herself up on her elbows, ignoring the pain, her heart monitor beeping faster.

  “What did she say?”

  “Well, she basically said she wanted the painting or she’d kill Mai and Tommy. She thought I was Jim. At least at first.”

  “What do you mean, ‘at first’?”

  “Well, I told her I wasn’t Jim and she just instantly knew who I was. And Sandra too.” He reached out and squeezed his wife’s hand, the look of fear on her face obvious.

  Sherrie began to feel a sense of foreboding grip her, almost afraid to ask her next question. “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her Jim and Laura had been arrested.”

  “You told her?”

  Milton nodded, his eyes widening slightly. “I didn’t really have much choice, I thought she might hurt Mai and Tommy. Besides, Jim and Laura are safe at the police station.” He paused. “Aren’t they?”

  Sherrie shook her head. “No, Mr. Milton, I think they’re in more danger now than they ever were.”

  Annapolis Police Department, Taylor Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland

  Nadja Katz strode up to the Desk Sergeant, flashing her Homeland Security ID, two of her men behind her, everyone in dark suits and sunglasses, earpieces in place.

  They were the stereotype.

  Because it worked.

  “Special Agent Willow. We’re here for the prisoners.” She produced a sheaf of perfectly faked transfer orders. “Acton, James and Palmer, Laura.”

  “Christ, you people are fast. We haven’t even booked them yet.”

  “When you kill a CIA agent, the wheels turn a little bit quicker.”

  “A CIA agent is dead?” asked the sergeant, alarms immediately tripping in Katz’ head.

  I shot her twice, point blank range. She has to be dead.

  Unless she was wearing a vest.

  Clever girl.

  “That’s the information I have, though things are still sketchy. She didn’t die?”

  The old sergeant shook his head. “No, she took quite the beating but I just heard that she’s going to pull through.”

  “That’s a relief. I guess the charge in her case will be attempted murder.”

  “Well, you’ve still got two dead regardless. I’m sure those charges will stick if it wasn’t self-defense. That guy Acton was shot too.”

  So I did hit him.

  “You mean he’s not here?”

  The sergeant shook his head as he rose from his stool. “Naw, just a graze. They treated him at the scene and then they were brought here for questioning. He’s in Interrogation Room Two, she’s in Three. Who do you want to see first?”

  “Acton.”

  He nodded toward a door to the right. “Check your weapon and I’ll buzz you thro
ugh. Down the hall, third door on the left.”

  Katz ejected the mag and cocked the action, showing the empty chamber, then handed her weapon to one of the officers manning the door. She turned to her men. “You two stay here, I won’t be long.”

  If she couldn’t have a weapon with her, she wanted her men out here to still have theirs.

  Because she was quite certain within minutes there would be blood.

  And it wouldn’t be hers.

  The Kahala Hotel & Resort, Honolulu, Oahu, Hawaii

  Dylan Kane felt himself drifting off in a post-coital bliss, Leiko having worn him out completely, her appetite almost insatiable. She was fantastic. And memories of her would have to satisfy his carnal lusts for the next few weeks, there probably little to no possibility of a hookup where he was going.

  Pakistan.

  He hated few countries in the world, but Pakistan was one of them. Primitive, backward, stuck centuries in the past, with a population that seemed to hate anyone different, trusted no one, and was incredibly quick to take offence.

  It was a Taliban paradise.

  Word was a top al-Qaeda leader was in Peshawar to meet with local Taliban to discuss a response to the ISIS threat. Even al-Qaeda was scared of them, their brand of Islam even more perverted.

  The Wahabists would be proud.

  It was his job to determine if the man was indeed there, try to determine what agreements, if any, were reached, then direct a drone strike if the powers that be ordered it.

  Just another day on the job.

  He wasn’t a big fan of drone strikes. They were too impersonal. It wasn’t necessarily that he liked putting a bullet between someone’s eyes, it was just that with a gun, he knew exactly who he was killing and that they deserved to be killed. With a drone strike it was everyone in the vicinity, and you weren’t always sure if your target was dead, the explosion quite often large enough to make the body unrecognizable.

  And on more than one occasion, a target presumed dead showed up weeks or months later, alive and well, perhaps missing an arm or leg that had been used to decide they were erroneously terminated.

  Give me a rifle and a scope any day.

  His watch vibrated with another message. Leiko was breathing deeply on his chest, the woman finally worn out herself as well. They hadn’t left the hotel room from the moment he knocked on her door, food ordered in, the remnants on a cart in the hall.

  They were both each other’s desert.

  He carefully extracted himself, doing the old Ross Geller hug and roll, and retreated to the bathroom.

  Urgent from SW.

  He frowned.

  This can’t be good.

  He pulled out his encrypted phone, locking the door and turning on the shower. Dialing, Sherrie White almost immediately answered. “Hello?”

  “It’s me. What’s your status?”

  “I’m out of commission. The professors have been arrested, two of their students kidnapped, and I don’t know what to do. I need help.”

  He could hear the disappointment in her voice. Nobody wanted to fail on a mission, especially a young agent trying to make her bones in the business, but it happened. Even he had failed once or twice.

  Though he had always managed to clean up his mess.

  “Are you secure?”

  “I’m in a hospital recovering. I’ll be fine. I’ve got a police guard but I’m off the books so I haven’t notified Langley.”

  “Which means you haven’t notified our boy.”

  “No, he doesn’t know.”

  “He will soon enough. Better he hears from you. Why were the professors arrested?”

  “They shot the two men who tried to kill me. I think the police are just sorting things out, but the woman who shot me called Dean Milton. She wants the painting or she’s going to kill the two students that were with me. And she knows the professors have been arrested.”

  “Which means she knows where they are.”

  “Right.”

  “And if those two men were at their house and tried to kill you, then they were most likely there to kill the professors.”

  “That’s my assessment as well.”

  “Okay. Sit tight. I’m going to call in some big guns.”

  “Okay, thanks Dylan. And I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just call Chris. Now.”

  “I will.”

  Annapolis Police Department, Taylor Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland

  Nadja Katz knocked on the door then opened it, not waiting for an invite. The cop sitting across from her target looked at her, surprised. She flashed her badge. “Homeland Security. We’re taking over the case.” She jerked her head toward the door. “Give us a minute, would you?”

  He didn’t look pleased but he grabbed his pad and paper and left, Acton’s back to her. She closed the door then rounded the table. Acton’s eyes widened. She put a finger to her lips then pulled out a small device that looked like a cellphone. She activated it.

  “This will allow us to talk in private.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  “So you recognize me.”

  “You’re the bastard that killed Sherrie.”

  She forced a smile.

  It was expected.

  “You’ll be happy to hear that she’s alive and well. It’s amazing what Kevlar can do these days.”

  Acton breathed a sigh of relief before his rage refocused. “What have you done with my students?”

  “They’re safe. For the moment.”

  “What do you want from me? From us? What have we done?”

  Another practiced smile. “You’ve created headaches for my employers by asking the wrong questions publicly.”

  Acton’s eyes narrowed. “What questions?”

  “Questions exactly like that. You, professor, need to learn to shut your mouth.”

  Acton looked at her. “It’s what I do.”

  Cheeky.

  She forced a smile. “Right now all you’re going to do is come with me, quietly, then take me to the painting.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “If you don’t, your students will die, as will your best friend, Greg, and his lovely wife Sandra. And I will finish the job on your young CIA agent.”

  Acton glared at her. “What if I just tell the cops you’re the one they’re looking for?”

  She smiled, it almost instinctual, as if some vestige of memory from her forgotten youth wanted to rear its former self. A rare occurrence. “If I’m not outside in ten minutes, my men have orders to kill everyone involved.” She leaned forward, her knuckles pressing into the table, her bangs hanging in front of her eyes. “Or you can come with me, quietly.”

  Acton’s glare intensified then broke, his shoulders slumping. “Fine.” He rose. “I give you the painting, then what?”

  “Then we part ways.”

  With a bullet to the back of your head.

  Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, New Orleans, Louisiana

  Dawson stood by the door as Jones and his wife rushed up the steps. The staff would be taking commercial flights, this flight limited to Bravo Team members, a minimal flight crew, and two scared passengers.

  No one else.

  Niner and Spock were busy closing all the blinds on the windows to prevent any snipers from getting a good shot, and the Secret Service, not too pleased to be excluded from the op, were providing external security until the plane was airborne.

  Atlas was last on board, one of the flight crew pulling up the stairs of the Learjet.

  “Let’s go!” shouted Dawson at the open cockpit door, the pilot already edging up the throttle, the sleek private jet beginning to taxi for the runway, the Secret Service having arranged for an immediate departure.

  It was a rapid extraction, but necessary. Whoever they were dealing with had power and money, and though they hadn’t killed, yet, clearly were willing to break the law. Jones hadn’t told them much, his fear of har
m to his family genuine. And probably justified. Langley had informed them of the hack on the Constitution Tower computers, masked to make it look like it came from government computers, the hacks actually originating out of Russia apparently, though that meant little. Organized crime and foreign powers set up secret cells in various rogue states so that anything they did could be blamed on the state they had taken up residence in. China had been the most popular, though now that Russia was back in the bad books, they were the preferred locale, it a lot easier to blend into the Russian mosaic than the Chinese homogeny.

  The powerful engines shoved him into the back of his seat as the pilot lifted off, the emergency ascent approved to put them out of range of bullets or shoulder launched missiles as quickly as possible.

  It was a terrifying experience he was sure for those on board not used to it.

  The plane began to level out when he felt his satellite phone vibrate. “Speak.”

  “Hey, BD, it’s me.”

  Dawson immediately recognized Kane’s voice and smiled. Then frowned. “Okay, you never call to just say hi. What do you want?”

  Kane laughed, though he sounded like he was trying to keep from being overheard. “You know me so well. I need your help.”

  “We’re just wheels-up and airborne for two and a half hours.”

  “You’re not in Bragg?”

  “Negative. Just leaving New Orleans.”

  “Shit. Listen, the Professors are in a bit of trouble.”

  “Again?”

  “Yeah, it never ends with them. We should start sending them a bill.”

  Dawson laughed. If the bill were actually tallied, the US government might come out owing the Actons after all they had done for them over the years. With Laura Palmer filthy rich, her money had helped save his men on more than one occasion.

  The Feds might think they’re owed, but Delta owes them big time.

  Which was one of the many reasons he never hesitated to help when he could.

  “What happened this time?”

  “Not sure, it’s a weird one. Apparently somebody found a painting that was supposed to have sunk on the Titanic, began asking some questions, and a security tap was triggered. It looks like they might have uncovered something to do with the Titanic—a US Navy ship might have been there and done nothing.”